of power and will
by spell406
Summary: Amestris wasn't built in a day, and neither was Colonel Mustang's vision of its future. The years have passed, the battles – and promotions - have been won, yet there were days that he couldn't help but wonder about days, when did his path of ambition started, and where is leading to. (reprint from ao3; kinda oc but not exactly)


Of power and will

Amestris wasn't built in a day, and neither was Colonel Mustang's vision of its future. The years have passed, the battles – and promotions - have been won, yet there were days that he couldn't help but wonder, where did his path started, and where is leading to.

* * *

Disclaimer: Everyone does that so I do it too, dunno why: I don't own nor FMA nor any character that isn't mine.

Looking for native-speaker English beta tester (mostly typos, grammar check). Knowing my usual pace of work, volunteer won't be overworked.

Well, looks like I pulled it off at last.

What are you looking at, my dear reader, is the aftermath of accidently rekindled 10 years-old (damn, it was already ten years… time surely goes fast) utmost love and adoration to undeniably (in my opinion, of course) greatest manga/anime series of all times, and best pieces of pop culture in general, and my definitely favorite character, Roy Mustang. It is also my first fanfic in something like seven years of break, and first ever planned and written in foreign language. Damn, I surely lost a lot of my personal style (further dulled by lack of practice) at this transition but widening potential audience demands sacrifices, heh. (Okay, I lied – getting _any_ audience at all does)

"You don't have to describe monsters you are writing about if you call them 'indescribable'" – Howard Philip Lovecraft, circa 1926, probably.

As you'll see I am really _not very good _at describing things – no matter, if it comes to places, impressions, emotion expressions, or taken actions – all the time I have irksome feeling that I do it genuinely okay-ish, but I use not enough words to make the narration fluent and consistent enough instead of being kinda awkwardly cut-off in the middle. On the other hand, I really enjoy writing long and complex dialogues, so it why I developed my own style that heavily emphasizes dialogues as main mean of forwarding information/expression/whatever-things.

* * *

_"__We're murderers now, you know."_

_"__Yes, we are." He gazed into his eyes with cold and careless stare, like a scientist leaning over promising at first glance, but in the end slightly disappointing specimen, and Roy suddenly felt that he is being scolded. He blinked, when his friend reduced distance between them and with quiet and tensed voice begun to count on his fingers. "I am a murderer, you are a murderer, Armstrong is a murderer, Grand is a murderer, and Knox is a murderer, Marcoh, hah, Marcoh is one hell of murderer, and that girl, Hawkeye is a murderer, too. Now, let me ask a question: how exactly are you going to change that? Does it even matter, mayor Roy Mustang, a man with his prized flame alchemy and newly acquired hero title, with awaiting promotion and idealistic dreams, and gloves permeated with blood? Does it really matter __**now**__?_

_"__It will never come off. I mean, the blood."_

_"__Of course it won't. And that's precisely why I don't care."_

* * *

It was warm and pleasant sensation of sunlight on his face that made him turn around his chair and rest his back upon it in more comfortable way. It was spring, and the day was beautiful indeed, with – first time after weeks of constant sleet and rain – perfectly cloudless sky and still air, only slightly disturbed by muffled sounds of city life seeping in. Just like back them, he thought, stretching out his legs toward window frame, and knotting his hands on back of his neck. Warmth of sunrays quickly made him feeling a bit drowsy, so he decided that his team working behind his back does not require as much help with work as usually demands. It was almost exactly year ago, when he decided to pay a visit to an old friend from times he spent in Eastern HQ. Just like then, weather was just fine. Good enough to make him leave his car keys behind and take a nice and long walk. It took him no more than hour to reach his destination. He still remembered most of details of room he was accommodated in…

"Daydreaming again, sir? Not like you have a work to do." It was second lieutenant Breda who was first to voice Roy's team attitude toward his current level of productivity.

"Done already, second lieutenant." Roy's mind – not without some problems - shifted towards reality again. "Couldn't sleep tonight and wasn't really in mood for going out so I decided to take care of at least one of my problems."

Well, actually, that one was true. It started years ago, just after Ishval, and – as far as he knew – occasionally episodes of acute insomnia was one of more common and less burdening issues amidst veterans of extermination. It was more an annoyance than real harm, nonetheless he hated those nights with seething passion, perhaps even more than doing his paperwork. After a few hours of surprisingly exhausting idleness he decided that it would be better to do something actually useful instead of lying down in silent darkness, clenching his fists in silent fury at that-whatever-is-it thing that decided to rob him of one of last joys in his life, rolling from side to side over and over, and trying to stop needlessly overanalyzing things that should be left behind long time ago.

He didn't have to look to know that his men send him gazes full of doubt.

"Unfamiliar, I know." Roy raised his hands in defeat. From previous experiences, drinking at nights like that was out of option. He did it a few times before and every time ended up regretting it bitterly. "And don't get used to it. Just… We have a really nice day today, and I am at least for now unoccupied so why don't you guys just give me a break?"

That room – medium in size and well illuminated with morning sunrays entering via windows that were covering most of two walls was easiest to describe as something between an office, library and workshop – it general appearance reminded him his own office in East, although far more cramped with additional desks, bookshelves, closets, bookcases, neatly presented models of various buildings, books and drafting tools loosely lying around, mixed – here and there – with pieces of cutlery and plates which were looking like kind of forgotten since some time. Typical fate of spaces serving as both living and working room. There was also a simple desk with tea kettle, cups, plate full of various fruits and snacks, and – last, but not least – his little welcome gift - generously-sized bottle of 1902's "de la Santisima Trinidad" whisky on it, and two king-sized armchairs, currently occupied by him and his host placed by opposite sides.

"Saying "break" implies that there were effort taken before. And in this particular case – with all due respect, sir – I failed to notice." Reality called to him again, this time with Falman voice. He could bet that warrant officer didn't even raised his head from his daily dose of statistical analysis. "And even if so, you could always take a day off, sir."

Ignoring second lieutenant Havoc muffled chuckle, he drifted again into half-dream, this peculiar state of mind, where brain – although freed from clutches of reality - is still capable of registering flow of time and understanding every heard word, even if it doesn't bother with putting them together into understandable phrases. Not exactly asleep, but certainly not awake, one would say. How did that talk strayed from so far from topic?

"Drinking it before dinner would be crime against humanity." His host said, pointing out bottle and let out short chuckle. "Let's have a tea instead, at least for now. So, back to the topic… It never really mattered, didn't it? It wasn't my first deployment, you know. Perhaps I haven't spent as much time on the frontlines as you did, well, let's say that direct combat was never really my first specialization, but I can assure you I've seen - and _done_ \- my share of Ishval reality. Hah, Ishval, it really opened more than one pair of eyes, didn't it? Well, tragedies _do_ open eyes. One can't say that none warned him about what does it take to become State Alchemist, right? But I decided to become one, you did, and everyone else present back then did, too. To become human weapon. Toy of military. Mindless enforcer of king fuehrer's will. When one pulls the trigger does gun asks 'Who am I pointing at? Why?' Yet we all have accepted this, perhaps it was ours youthful naivety, thoughtless ambition, perhaps was silent hope that given orders will be reasonable enough to follow without loathe, or just took it as grim yet necessary price to achieve one's own goals. When I accepted my silver pocket watch thirty years ago, I was focused on my research, you know. I wanted to make a difference, to use alchemy as it was meant to do, to make life better for everyone. But in the end, extermination came, and none of this ever mattered. „Heed a call of Amestris and its people in time of need" it stood in my official assignment, so did I. And there were orders. Soulless orders from fiendish people. And I've carried out them all, every single one of them, because there were no real alternative. And the results." He rubbed base of his nose, exhaled weakly and took another sip from his cup. "I've seen all of the results with my own very eyes. Cities, districts, houses, crumbling to oblivion alike. Stench of smoke, and blood, and cordite, and iron lingering in the air. Human shadows burned upon brickwork. Shapeless lumps of scorched meat robbed of future, families and dreams. You know what do I mean, but to be honest, Ishvalas weren't the only victim there. Did you hear that average suicide rate of veterans skyrocketed like eight or nine times across just one year? I guess that we could leave Ishval but Ishval will not leave us anytime soon. But in the evening before my departure, I looked into the mirror and asked myself „Is this it? Is this a true purpose for a science that I've dedicated my life? To serve people of Amestris, they said. What kind of benefit would such service grant to my people? I knew that it would change nothing that I've done but I couldn't stand idly, too. It took me some time to crack that nut. _To understand, that power is exactly as evil as will that commands it is_, and at the very own moment of accepting my watch my will ceased to be my own. So I did only thing that could change anything, I quit the military, I claimed the will that commands my alchemy again. Yet still it was too easy to give up in grief, acknowledge my utter and complete defeat and spent rest of my life running away from nightmare that I have inflicted, or to just put myself out of this misery just like many others did. I think I might have if I was a little bit younger or more impulsive. Anyway, I still had both my alchemy, and conviction to use it as it is meant to do. It is known, that in time of crisis, human being needs four basic things to survive: healthy food and water, medical supplies, safe shelter and safe evacuation route. Human being can survive about two weeks without food, three days without water, from minutes to days without medical attention, but without shelter, every second might be the last one. I can't help so much with first two, but to hell with me if I couldn't take care about rest. Did I mentioned that I have finally obtained my master architect degree? Anyway, so I have returned to the battlefield again, but this time I had to follow no orders other than my will. Want to know where the funny part is? Everywhere I go I do the exactly the same things as in Ishvan, but for much different purpose. Power is as evil as will commanding it, as I said before. Ironic, isn't it? So again, I am building again underground bunkers, raising barricades under enemy shellfire, digging trenches and tunnels seemingly without end, rebuilding sabotaged bridges, restoring sundered railways. And don't make me wrong – my doing is not measly rearranging available stone, earth or concrete like any mediocre-smart child can do after year or two of training. No, I spent my entire life on perfecting my art. Give me a heap of rubble and I'll resynthesize it in a barricade that can withstand direct shell hit from any imaginable gun caliber, proven for up to Cretan mod. 1899 twelve inch self-propelled siege mortar. Give me a tank wreck, and I'll build entirely underground hospital with triple reinforced concrete roof with additional face hardened steel plating. No riveting, just homogenous slab of steel, Grand would eat his own boots for that ability. And with working power grid, just bring your own generator. Bridge that was only route of evacuation has been destroyed? Give me ten minutes, and I'll guarantee that my creation will outlive me. Collapsed tunnel? Of all elements contained in ground I can synthesize even fully working light bulbs. The purpose, Roy, is the only difference. It is no more for military, not for conquest, nor honor, nor duty. It is for those who are caught in the midst of battlefield, and none cares about. For those poor, left behind souls, that were too slow, too uninformed, crippled, or simply too unfortunate to make escape in time. One might say that I do not want to save them by myself, to buy myself the peace of mind, to stifle that inescapable sense of guilt that plagued me since then. Perhaps they are right, you know, but again, it changes nothing. I am there, I save lives, time heals their wounds so they can carry on, that's what matters. It would be arrogant of me to say „for every life wasted in Ishvan I shall rescue one, then we are equal" – no, I believe that if it comes to human life rule of equivalent exchange doesn't apply, so I'll keep it going as long as either I can stand on my own or last gunshots over borders shall go silent. Yet ultimately, I dare to say that despite everything I've done I found my peace. Sure, the things I've witnessed in Ishvan is not something that can be ever forgotten but... It was a tragedy but you should not blame yourself for your participation. None of us, in fact, fighting at battlefront is. You know there was one day, that I realized what does it mean to be human weapon. We all have heard this phrase so many times, but I don't think that anyone realized that it is something more than just blunt insult. Weapon does not decide when to shoot, but on the other hand, when bullet leaves the barrel and cuts life short… is it gun to be blamed for? We just had terrible misfortune of receiving orders from people that shouldn't be even left in charge of pig pens. If it wouldn't be your flame, then someone else would be sent in your place. It could be either I, or any other alchemist, or perhaps a few minutes of well-placed artillery barrage, or just another squad of young lads or lasses that had heard too much about honor and duty and had bad luck of signing into military at wrong time. But there is something else – I figured out that it will be safer to use alias – no particular reason, just don't want to attract military's attention again. But I slipped out once, back in 1911, at Cretan border. There was a pretty nasty conflict – if memory serves me right – currently known as Second Southern Intrusion, or – named after biggest town in that area – Springfield sack. Of course, because encircled Third Infantry Division managed to break through with relatively light causalities, regroup, and launch successful counterattack within less than two weeks it was enough to those punks in central command to immediately called it brilliant victory, not like fate of half thousand residents left behind was their primary concern anyway. The conflict itself by the way – especially from our point of view – was pretty busy, and by saying "our" I mean me and five hundred and seventeen survivors of initial assault and artillery barrage and trust me, they were damn fine people, but as I mentioned before I slipped out. No idea how, but it doesn't really matter, right? I realized it like two years later, when I received an mail with an invitation. There was a girl, back then something like seventeen years old, a lone survivor that I've pulled out from debris of her family house, and she wanted me to be guest of honor on her wedding. There was a long period of time, that all I wished was to extermination war never happened. To cut it out, delete from world's history, call it whatever you want, to spare myself and, frankly speaking, everyone else this madness of destruction. But if it would happen, I would be still licking brass somewhere in cozy office of Eastern HQ by this time and it would mean certain, unavoidable doom for every single one of them years later. And I was on that wedding and I've seen consequences of my actions with my very own eyes. Every single one life saved, every sorrow that they have left behind and hope that they were looking forward. How could I wish for such a thing?"

"You've grown sentimental." Mustang decided to lighten his mood a bit. As adamant as his friend was, he did not emerged from extermination war completely unscathed, after all. "Are you sure that you're _only_ sixty years old?" Well, no _sane _man did.

That was bullseye. He immediately straighten up in chis armchair, crossed his arms against chest and sent him reproaching gaze from narrowed eyes. The fish took a bait, hah.

"I am fifty two, kid. By the way, look who is talking, did you honestly thought that I've already forgotten your scorned puppy face that you did during evacuation from Ishval?"

You old geezer, he thought.

"It is pity that your ambition falls behind your talkativeness. Honestly, I always considered your lack as biggest difference between us." Roy scanned his host face features. Such a strange combination, a cold eyes of murderer and always visible net of laughing wrinkles around it.

"Boldly said, considering that I still surpass you with both rank and age. But well, what else should I expect from Grumman protégée." Old man surely must have missed theirs petty word quarrels. By amount of contained mischievous joy, that grin he just let out could rival his own.

"How strange, I haven't seen you in uniform for quite a long time, and even so, you'll start again from the bottom. If you are still interested, I can make use of someone who will handle my paperwork." To be honest, Roy missed it, too.

"Unfortunately, my ability to following orders has decreased dramatically since some time. You have grown even more arrogant since our last meeting, Roy, and I doubt that this trait will push your career forward. Anyway, I suppose that you're not only here to have a drink and listen to old man blabbering. Do you have anything specific on mind?"

"I wanted to discuss something with you." Roy decided to lay his cards on the table. The matter of his ambition was something that he would like to talk about with sober head, and that – taking under consideration that man hospitality, legendary vastness of his basement, bottle standing on the desk and his own habits – shouldn't be considered as granted for prolonged period of time. "Care to hear me out?"

Sound of opening doors again snapped him back to reality.

"Colonel, sir." Reproachfully voice of first lieutenant Hawkeye entered the room, immediately followed by its owner. Her steps sounded loudly as she approached and put an additional stack of papers on his desk. It took her a few seconds less than usual and – he allowed to slip out slight smile – her time required to do so was heavily correlated with her mood.

Sunny for now, but with chance of thunderstorm.

On the one hand it would be wise to put his shit together and focus on work instead of testing his ever-dutiful adjutant patience without any particular reason, but on the other hand he was – considering circumstances - in inexplicably good mood and reminiscence of his friend seemingly have awoken some long-forgotten strain of defiance within him. By the way, he was the last person present there that should behave like child caught on stealing sweets, right?...

Shadow of lieutenant Hawkeye was looming over him patiently.

It is all fun and games, until someone loses eye… or perhaps – to be more precise – got his head blown off. Well, at least metaphorically. Anyway, it is too late for excuses so why don't just…

"It is quite a beautiful day today, lieutenant," he started dreamily, perfectly aware that rest of his men are not even trying to look busy anymore. Damn, he wasn't sparing anyone since last few weeks, and they really deserve to have some fun; either of him or Hawkeye, depending mostly on her reaction…

"Have you noticed how vividly green grass is after all those rains? And the sky." He raised his gaze upon peerlessly blue horizon. "With color as deep as this, one might think that you can drown in it. Honestly, days like this make me believe that there is nothing beyond my reach."

She hesitated for a brief moment, perhaps a few seconds longer than expected, and he suddenly had to shrug off urge to turn around and see what kind of expression was on her face.

"Indeed it is, sir."

* * *

The idea behind this entire thing was like "write Mustang-centered fic actually with very little Mustang on it; instead of putting words into his mouth I decided to put entire focus on story to be heard, and let the reader guess what was his conclusion." At least, that was the plan, lemme know if it turned out as good as it was in my head.

Until majority of work was done, I wanted general Grumman to be Roy's host (for various logical I deemed him most suited to be so, but after finishing I re-watched every Grumman scene and realized that somehow I cannot picture him talking like this so I've tried to switch him with Knox, then Marcoh, but they left Ishval in even worse state of mind than Mustang, Silver Alchemist, but of this little data that was shown he had rather Kimbley' attitude, even general Raven, (and it could even work out, but at that time he was probably already corrupted and sitting in central) and several other characters, after hours of re-reading, re-analyzing, and re-watching brotherhood I decided to introduce OC keep things as immersive as it is possible. (Before I'll get fed up and discard this damned thing.)

A few words about OC. It is an old project of mine back from time where I thought that putting OCs wherever they would fit is a good idea, created somewhere in ~2013 or smth like that, don't really remember for what franchise. Anyway, I like that gramps, and if I ever create my own universe, he'll be there for sure. I left him nameless on purpose, to further highlight that he is only narrative tool that interacts with Mustang.

Ultimately, I am pretty fond off this thing. It is not perfect, of course (nothing is perfect, hah), still has some rough edges, but – at least in my opinion – the core dialogue is pretty decent. Its long, complex, kinda chaotic (I thought that it'll make look more natural) and pretty immersive - I really enjoyed that 1,5 hour that took me to write that part (but those 58,5 hours of planning, editing, writing descriptions, intro and outro + comic relief, finding typos, analyzing, losing faith and hope and joy of life spanned across 3 last months was pretty okay, too – source: word document metadata)


End file.
